


A Stolen Key

by taelynhawker



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Not Really Character Death, Romance, aftermath violent crime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2012-09-19
Packaged: 2017-11-14 13:56:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taelynhawker/pseuds/taelynhawker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has trouble dealing with John's death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Stolen Key

The music swells, melancholy and sweet.

The bow draws with delicate agony across the strings of the violin, relentless in its sorrow. The sound of a heart monitor flat-lining.

It stutters, slows, the note goes sour.

Silence. The air is still, waiting.

There is the crass sound of shattered wood. The death song of the beloved instrument.

And then, a moment later, the off-kilter sound of, not glass, but bone shattering as well.

The skull.

If John Watson had been there Sherlock might have thrown him against the wall for good measure.

No.

No.

He'd never have hurt John. Not purposefully. Not with the cold and bitter intention with which he had just broken his violin and then the skull.

Not John. Not John. Not John.

Sherlock stumbles back, sitting heavily in a familiar chair.

And wakes hours later realizing he is in John's chair, not remembering having fallen asleep. A violin string dangles from one toe; a piece of dark wood shares the seat cushion with him.

There is blood on his hands, but it isn't his. His violin would never hurt him that way. Not the way that boy, that stupid, selfish boy, had hurt John.

John's blood. It is John's blood on his hands.

In his hair, the side of his face, his neck. He had held John close, tried to press one hand against all of John's wounds.

And John had whispered his name. Over and over and over.

Just, "Sherlock," in a way he had never said it before. Perhaps, had Sherlock been in Afghanistan the day John was shot, perhaps then John might have said his name that way.

As if he were dying.

Dying.

John was dying. Is John dead? Yes. Yes, he is.

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson, from the stairs.

She isn't wearing any jewelry, none of the tell-tale clinks and jingles. She is wearing proper shoes, though. She's been out. He hadn't noticed.

He hadn't noticed. He stares at Mrs. Hudson but cannot deduce where she has been or why. For that matter, he isn't sure how many days it's been since John died.

Has John taken his ability to deduce with him? No. That's not possible. John may be dead, but he can't have taken Sherlock's mind with him.

Mrs. Hudson is speaking, but Sherlock must go to his mind palace right now. Right now. He needs to make sure everything is exactly where it should be. Except that he can't seem to enter his mind palace.

Surely John didn't have the key. John can't have locked him out of his own mind and took the key with him. Could he? Sherlock did sleep. He doesn't often sleep. Is that because-

A slap to the face. Mrs. Hudson looks shocked, her hand trembling. Tears in her eyes. Sherlock stares up at her.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he exclaims, not sure if he is shocked or impressed.

Why on earth would she hit him? John is dead and he's taken the key to Sherlock's mind palace. Does she not understand how very serious this situation is?

"John is alive, Sherlock. Change out of those clothes and put your shoes on so we can go see him."

That's just idiotic. Even if John were alive he wouldn't care what Sherlock wore. He loved Sherlock. The first time they'd had sex had been after a fistfight with several assailants and John hadn't minded that they were both bloody. Ridiculous.

And, "John is dead."

She blinks. The tears fall. Ah, she didn't know, then. Would John have scolded him for how he dispensed the news? How is Sherlock ever to know what's good and a bit not good if John is gone? And with his bloody mind palace key, as well.

Sod the man.

"Oh, Sherlock. Is that why... all this? The poor violin," she says, as if the violin's destruction were a sadder thing than John's death. And they say he's mad and heartless.

He stands from the chair abruptly, stepping round Mrs. Hudson and going into the kitchen. He knows how to make tea, of course.

But how had John made it? He takes out a box of chamomile tea and brings it to his nose. The smell reminds him of John. He means to boil water but finds himself merely standing and sniffing the tea.

"Oh, Mycroft. Thank goodness. He won't listen, he thinks John is-"

Sherlock hadn’t even heard him come up the stairs.

"I will handle it, Mrs. Hudson. My assistant is in the car; please go down and wait with her. My brother and I will be there shortly."

Sherlock snarls at the thought. He can't go anywhere without the key to his mind. And John is dead. And the tea smells like John. Sherlock's not sure he can pick a lock with tea. Should he try?

Why is his throat so tight? And his face wet? Annoying.

"Sherlock, you're coming with me now. We've got to see John."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. Mycroft's got his soothing voice on. The one Sherlock imagines he uses to bully foreign dignitaries into doing as he wishes.

"He's taken my key," Sherlock says.

But then, maybe he should go see the body that was John. He might still have the key on his person. John wouldn't have hid it. He'd know how important it was. He would have kept it with him and safe.

Not that John is safe anymore. And why is Sherlock's face so bloody wet? Is there a leak? He looks up. No leak. His eyes stray to Mycroft.

Mycroft looks ill. Maybe dieting isn't good for him.

"Decided to find out if he is still in possession of your key?" Mycroft asks. As if the smug bastard doesn't already know. No one has taken his key, after all.

Sherlock doesn't answer. He grabs his coat and goes down to the car.

Sherlock assumes they will go to the morgue, but they don't. He stops, staring down the hallway that would lead him there. Perhaps Molly is seeing to John even now.

John.

John. Tea and jumpers. And sex. And kisses. Blunt fingers in Sherlock's hair, gentle and calloused. Small, neat mouth. John. John.

The floor is cold, but the wall is very solid behind him. He shakes, whole body tremors. Has he been using again? Surely he'd remember if he had?

Mycroft clicks his tongue disapprovingly and drags Sherlock up by one arm. Mrs. Hudson is crying again. Well, it's time she behaved properly, what with mourning the violin earlier more than she had John.

John loves Sherlock’s violin. Sherlock plays for him naked sometimes, after they've made love and Sherlock cannot sleep because he must catalog every sound John makes before they fade. Playing helps him concentrate.

No. He used to play for John, naked. And John used to love it.

"It's the withdrawal," he tells Mycroft, sneering as he pulls free of him.

"You haven't used in well over five years, Sherlock." Mycroft is being obnoxiously patient.

"I need my key," he says.

"Shall we go to see John, then?"

"To see John's body. It's hardly John anymore, is it?"

Mrs. Hudson sobs violently, and Anthea puts a steadying arm around her.

"Follow me," Mycroft says, turning on his heel. His umbrella taps out an awkward rhythm on his leg.

Sherlock tries to follow the notes, to make music or at least a pattern of the sound. He can't. He can make a pattern out of anything. He can make music. He can do neither right now.

It's John's fault.

The room they come to is blindingly white, as most hospital rooms are. Something is beeping annoyingly in his ear, drowning out Mycroft's tapping.

"Go on in," Mycroft tells him, stepping away.

But Sherlock is frozen in the doorway. John is in the bed, the sheet pulled up to his hips, baring his bandaged abdomen and chest.

That stupid boy. Five stab wounds. Unnecessary. John had given up his wallet, and Sherlock didn't have one. At least, not on his person. But then he'd tried to take John's dog tags from where they hung around Sherlock's neck, as they had been since that first night.

That first night when John had kissed Sherlock's bloody temple, his scuffed cheek, his cut lip. He'd put the dog tags around Sherlock's neck, held them in his fist as he dragged Sherlock closer. They'd made a delicate music to accompany their love making.

Sherlock had never taken them off.

Why had that moron wanted them? Petty. Vicious. Sherlock's hand closed around the dog tags, still safely around his neck. He'd give them up to have John back. Like he'd given up the violin and the skull earlier. If only to have John back.

Sentiment. John had ransacked his mind palace and left nothing but sentiment behind. Sherlock might as well off himself. Perhaps all those fools in church were right. Maybe he would see John then.

"Sherlock," Mycroft calls, startling him from his thoughts. "Go."

Sherlock swallows hard. "To retrieve my key?" His face is wet again, his stomach unsettled.

"Yes," Mycroft answers.

Sherlock nods and walks forward, gait smooth and precise, back straight.

"You have something of mine," he tells the breathing corpse in the bed. The beeping increases slightly. "I need the key to my mind palace. You shouldn't have taken it."

The corpse that was once John Watson opens its eyes, staring up at Sherlock. It isn’t fair that the corpse’s eyes look so much like his John’s. That its mouth should turn down in annoyance the way John’s had. Sherlock had loved that mouth. Those eyes. That man. His doctor.

"Why weren't you here this morning, you bugger? I woke up to Mycroft," the corpse demands, eyes moving over Sherlock’s form. “Haven’t you showered? Is that my blood? Sherlock, the doctor’s say I’ve been here two days!”

"You're dead," he tells it. "What do you care? Now give me my key so I can deduce again. I don't feel myself."

The corpse's face crumbles, just completely collapses into sorrow. It lifts its hand to grasps Sherlock’s.

"You mad, beautiful thing," it murmurs. And that is just the sort of thing John would say. "Come here. Sit. I've got your key. Sit and I’ll give it to you."

Sherlock listens because he doesn't want to be mad and sentimental. He wants to be cold and logical. He wants his mind palace back.

"Now you've got to kiss me. Kiss me; that's where the key is." John's corpse sounds very tired, very sad.

"I don't want to kiss a corpse."

"Just once," the corpse begs.

Sherlock leans over stiffly, pressing his lips to the corpse’s. He means it to be short, simple. But the lips are warm and familiar. They demand more from him, and he gives, as he has only ever given to John.

John, who is warm and breathing, whose heart monitor beeps in a steady rhythm. Not flatlining at all. John, whose delightful fingers are tangled in Sherlock's dirty curls. John's tongue presses into his mouth, and Sherlock tastes tea.

Sherlock pulls back. Dead men do not drink tea.

"You aren't dead at all," he tells John.

And John lets out a relieved sigh, tears filling his eyes.

"No. No, not dead."

"You flatlined," Sherlock tells him. "I thought-"

John is very alive. Pale but for the flush in his cheeks, lips red from kissing, eyes bright with tears and yes, pain. Pain.

Sherlock leans up, moving his hand from John's bandaged wounds. It hadn't mattered when John was a corpse, but he realizes now that he is hurting him.

Sherlock looks around the room. There is John's IV drip, his heart monitor, the plastic tea cup. Pain medication, the button that will give it to John as needed. John won’t like needing it though. Ever the soldier, he will try to avoid using the drugs.

Mycroft is on the phone in the hallway. An American diplomat, by the set of his shoulders and the vein that pops on his right temple.

Mrs. Hudson had been out earlier, but only to come here. She'd been in a hurry, of course, realizing John was alive and awake. She'd forgotten her jewelry. And her shoes hadn’t matched.

Sherlock looks back at John.

“You really did take my key,” he accuses.

John looks up at him, confused. ”Yeah, I’m still not quite sure what you’re on about, Sherlock. I just went with what I had to work with.”

“Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” He leans down and kisses John. “When are you coming home? You’ve been awake for over twelve hours. Woke up yesterday. Late evening. They couldn’t get a hold of me, so they got in touch with Mrs. Hudson. I was playing the violin. She must have come up to retrieve me, but I didn’t even notice. You said you woke up to Mycroft. Why was Mycroft here?”

John grasps his shirt and pulls him down, until Sherlock has curled himself carefully around John’s prone body. Sherlock reaches back and pushes the button that will release more painkillers. John chuckles and hides his face in Sherlock’s neck.

“Sherlock.” John speaks so quietly. “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” John murmurs against his skin, lips against Sherlock’s pulse.

Sherlock would like to deny it, but John would know, did already know.

“You were dead,” Sherlock tells him instead.

“I wasn’t. I flatlined, but... I’ll be okay. It’s just going to be a while before I can chase all over London after you, or clean up after your experiments. You might have to make tea.”

“I don’t know how!”

He remembers the smell of the tea leaves, the feel of the cold tin in his hand, thinking John would never be there again. That he would never feel the touch of John’s hands, warm from a cuppa, on his skin. Sherlock can’t possibly make the tea, why would John ask such a thing of him?

“Sherlock! Sherlock, it’s okay.” John sounds scared. John shouldn’t sound scared.

Sherlock kisses him again, and again. He kisses his face, his eyelids, the soft hair at his temple, his nose, his chin. John’s hands grab his face, forcing him to meet his eyes.

“I’ll make the tea,” John says faintly.

“Of course you will,” he says and kisses John again.

John catches the eye of someone behind Sherlock. Mycroft, more than likely. Sherlock can’t be bothered to care. He crowds in closer to John, very careful of his IV and his bandages. The door closes, leaving them alone.

“You okay?” John asks.

Sherlock doesn’t answer. He can’t keep his hands still, they run over John’s shoulders, his collar bone, pause at pulse points and over his beating heart. Alive. Stupid of him to think John would die. John wouldn’t leave him. He’d told John, when this started, that if he let Sherlock love him Sherlock would never let him go, that he would keep him, forever.

And John had agreed. He’d said it was fine, the way he always said it was fine, and it was. It was all very fine.

“You love me,” he tells John confidently.

“You know I do,” John answers, words slurred as the painkillers take effect.

“You wouldn’t leave me.”

“I try very hard not to.” John smiles sleepily.

“Don’t fall asleep,” Sherlock says, suddenly sick at the idea of John being unconscious.

John nods his head in agreement and kisses Sherlock. Tea. Tea and warmth and wet and John. He had been going through withdrawal earlier. Not from any drug, from John.

“I’ve never seen you like this,” John says, losing a hand in Sherlock’s curls again. “Sherlock, if you’d just stayed you wouldn’t have gone through this. Why did you leave?” The hand runs over his cheekbones, John’s thumb pressing on his bottom lip.

Sherlock shakes his head. Sentiment. “I couldn’t watch you die.”

And there it is. All of the cold logic and deduction in the world, all of his brilliance, is nothing in the face of his love for John Watson. And he understands now, in a way he couldn’t before, how hard it must have been for John to watch him fall all those years ago.

“Next time, stick around. I’d want you there, anyway, if something did happen.” John pulls him closer and Sherlock curls up tightly against him.

“No,” Sherlock answers, finally, when they are pressed as close as can be.

“Sherlock,” John says, chiding. “I don’t want to be alone. I would want you with me.”

John doesn’t say you owe me. He doesn’t say I watched you fall. Though he would justified in reminding Sherlock he had done just that. He simply asks. And John asks for very little, really.

Sherlock is quiet for a long time, listens to the steady tempo of the heart monitor and plays an accompanying rhythm with his fingers against the short strands of John’s hair.

It is a slow, gentle song, the notes as clear in his head as if he held the violin in his hands and not his lover. It reaches swelling heights, passionate crescendos, a slow dip into the briefest of melancholia.

When he replaces the instrument he will put it down on sheet music and play it for John.

Finally, Sherlock says, “Yes, fine.” in as sulky a tone as he can manage. And he thinks, I can always follow you after.

And that’s a fine compromise in his estimation.


End file.
